He not only saw that he was disgraced, but felt in himself that he had been cowardly; and, more mortifying still, felt that, with respect to the clodhopper, he was cowardly now.

He was afraid of him.

Nor could he take refuge in the old satisfaction of despising him; for that he found no longer possible.

He was on the contrary compelled to despise himself, an experience altogether new; so that his contempt for Alec changed into a fierce, slow-burning hate.
Now hate keeps its object present even more than the opposite passion.
Love makes everything lovely; hate concentrates itself on the one thing hated.

The very sound of Alec's voice became to the ears of Beauchamp what a filthy potion would have been to his palate.